He kneels in front of her grave. Eyes sweeping over her name, slowly taking in each golden letter engraved into the stone. This was the only evidence she ever even existed, the last memory of a woman who deserved so much more. Before he came into the picture and took all that she had.

He wonders at his own lack of remorse. Not for the first time, he questions whether he’s broken.

As always, it’s followed up by the thought that he doesn’t care.

This lonely grave was his trophy. His macabre method of immortalizing the people whose life he took. It was far more satisfying than some petty object or organ he could have take from his victims. And far less suspicious. Who would question the mourning of an old man? Who would deprive a grief-stricken visitor of his solitude?

It was the perfect cover.

As he stood up, he took care to wipe the smile from his face. From his coat, he produced a bouquet of roses and bent down to place it on the soil. For a reason he knew not, a thrill of foreboding shot up his spine and he quickly whipped around.

Nothing. No one was in the graveyard except for him.

Something cold grasped his ankle.

With a muffled yelp he glanced down to see a decomposed hand rising from the dirt and reaching towards his leg. It had a strong grip. No matter how he writhed, it was all in vain. There was no escape. Another hand popped out, slowly, torturously making its way towards his flesh.

He began to feel weak. The more he struggled, the more energy sapped out of him. In less than a minute he had resigned himself to lying on the ground. What had once been a putrid, decaying, corpse forcing its way out of the ground was now an almost perfect replica of himself.

In the last seconds of his consciousness, he saw his own face grinning triumphantly down at him, as it leaned down and plucked the hat straight from his own head. It walked off merrily, humming a jaunty tune as it carried off the bouquet he had given.

He never knew soil could be so cold.